


Expect the Unexpected

by strange_h3arts



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Silva, Action, Angst, Intrigue, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:22:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strange_h3arts/pseuds/strange_h3arts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Silva rescues Bond after he falls off the train. This is my first 00silva fic; I hope you like it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death

_“Take the bloody shot.” ___

As Eve’s 8mm bullet ripped through his sharkskin Tom Ford suit and buried itself in the Kevlar vest that covered his right ribcage, James Bond felt at peace.

There was no pain- yet. Just before his body was swept off the roof of the train like a limp ragdoll, the agent lazily glanced over at Patrice and saw the man staring at him stupidly with an expression of shock and elation. James craned his head downwards and calmly noted that his crisp white dress shirt was rapidly turning crimson with his own blood from Patrice’s bullet. He flexed his right hand and was met with a sudden stab of pain in his shoulder. 

_Your cufflinks are crooked, _Bond’s brain helpfully supplied him-- of course that would be his last thought-- and then everything went black.__

For about 10 seconds, Bond was absolutely weightless. His arms stretched above him uselessly, he plummeted like a falling stone before hitting the river below with a dull smack. 

In another circumstance the impact might have killed him, but by some miracle the agent struck the water at the exact right angle to allow his survival. He would have a mild concussion and 3 of his ribs were already broken from Eve’s bullet, but he would live. As his body sunk like a dead weight beneath the surface, the icy water bathed the wound in his shoulder and helped the blood flowing out to congeal. Unfortunately, as Bond was unconscious, the water also filled his lungs. 

He would have certainly been doomed- that is, if he had been alone.

Standing above the river and watching Bond drown from the bank was Raoul Silva.

“It appears our MI6 agent has encountered some unforeseen complications,” Silva chuckled with a slow shake of his head. “I must say, Mr. Bond, I’m rather disappointed!” 

Silva watched Bond’s body as the current tossed it about beneath the surface. Turning on his earpiece, Silva quickly gave orders in Chinese to one of his associates in Shanghai: “Patrice is alive. I have the MI6 agent sent to capture him in custody. You may proceed with the assassination plans.” 

“Dios mío, MI6 seems to be losing its touch,” Silva muttered to himself as he slipped out of his camel sport coat and laid it tenderly on a patch of grass next to the bank. “Don’t touch that, it’s Prada,” he warned one of his associates who had moved to pick up the jacket. Silva proceeded to unbutton his favorite silk patterned shirt, revealing a tanned and muscular chest marred with deep white scars and cigarette burns. “What are you looking at?” he barked at the men on the opposite side of the bank who were staring at the lash marks on his back. “Ready the car,” he ordered, “and get a blanket for Mr. Bond.” Silva deftly slipped off his leather loafers and removed his dark dress pants, leaving him clad only in a pair of uncharacteristically plain black boxers. 

Silva stretched his strong arms above his head and cracked his neck from side to side. He gave a small nod to the men on either side of him. And then he dove into the river.

Meanwhile, Bond was slipping in and out of consciousness as he felt the current move him downstream. His lungs burned and he felt the energy draining out of him. As the pain from his shoulder paralyzed him and he began to see white spots forming at the edges of his vision, he thought of Vesper. Perhaps it was only fitting that they leave this world the same way. _I’m ready, _he thought dimly to himself as his world began to go black again. And he felt a pair of muscular arms enclose around him.__

Bond’s body felt like a sack of rocks as Silva struggled to bring him to the surface. For a moment, Silva thought he was dead as the agent’s head lolled on his shoulders when he met the air above him. 

“Stay with me, Bond,” Silva gritted out as he swam to the edge of the bank and hauled the man’s body on the shore. Silva’s blond hair hung wet in his face, drops falling onto Bond’s chest as he performed CPR on the lifeless agent. 

Bond’s eyes were closed, and for a fleeting moment Silva thought he looked almost beautiful lying there. Then he remembered that Bond was supposed to be the enemy. But he couldn’t let the enemy die yet, could he? Bond represented a treasure-trove of classified information about MI6. _He can tell me everything about M, _thought Silva as his face involuntarily broke into a grimace.__

He quickly opened Bond’s shirt and examined his chest with deft fingers. Silva smiled as he saw the bullet hole from Patrice on Bond’s chiseled shoulder. There was only a small wound on the agent’s right ribcage from where Eve’s bullet had been deflected by his protective vest, but the skin was bruised a deep purple and Silva surmised that a few of Bond’s ribs had been broken. Silva seriously doubted that Bond would be in fighting condition when he awoke, but nonetheless he reached inside the man’s jacket to remove his Walther PPK. 

“Not bad,” Silva murmured appreciatively as he allowed his hand to briefly linger over the unconscious agent’s defined pectoral muscles. 

Bond still wasn’t breathing. With an almost tender expression on his face, Silva leaned down and pressed his mouth to Bond’s own to perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. With one hand he gently stroked Bond’s cheek, and with the other he pressed on the man’s still chest to push the water out of his lungs. It wasn’t a kiss, but it almost felt like one. _His lips are soft, _Silva thought to himself as he blew air into the agent’s lungs.__

Finally, with a gurgle Bond coughed water out of his lungs and rolled over onto his side, gasping for air with his eyes shut tightly.

Silva picked himself off the ground and stood over Bond as the man struggled to breathe normally again. Eventually Bond’s coughing subsided and he lay on his back, exhausted and staring up at the man above him. After a while, he managed to speak. 

“Who are you?” grimaced Bond, wincing at the wound in his shoulder that had begun to bleed again. Reflexively he reached to his side to pull his gun, but it was gone.

“Looking for this?” Silva said with a taunting smile as he produced Bond’s Walther PPK from behind his back. Bond was silent. “I am Raoul Silva. And you are James Bond, an MI6 double-oh agent. Double-oh seven, I presume.” 

“How do you know who I am?” said Bond warily, squinting up at the boxer-clad above him. His trained eyes swept over Silva’s body, taking in his muscles and horrific scars. _Dangerous, _Bond’s mind screamed at him.__

Silva snapped his fingers and one of his companions rushed over to hand him a ridiculously fluffy white towel. “Well, Mr. Bond,” Silva said, running the towel over his lean and tanned body, “Our stories are more entwined than you may realize.” He playfully shook his strangely blonde hair and then slicked it back with his fingers, spattering Bond with water droplets. “I am Patrice’s employer.”


	2. Resurrection

For a moment Bond was speechless. Silva stood above him smiling, apparently amused at the injured man’s confusion. 

“If Patrice is your assassin, then why didn’t you just let me drown? And I want to know exactly how you found out that I’m an MI6 agent,” Bond demanded incredulously, attempting to sit up and hissing in pain as his broken ribs protested. 

“Lie down, James --May I call you James?-- you don’t want to hurt yourself. I’ll explain everything later. But first, we’ve got to get you back to your old self!” Silva exclaimed as he began to put his clothes back on. 

“Men, please escort Mr. Bond back to the car,” Silva ordered his associates, who were approaching Bond with a blanket and a pair of handcuffs.

“I don’t need your bloody help!” Bond spat as Silva’s men cuffed him and attempted to lift him to his feet.

Silva chuckled as he watched Bond stand up painfully slowly and hobble unassisted to the car, the fleece blanket wrapped around his soaking clothes. _Damn MI6 Agents, always so prideful… ___

__\---_ _

__“To the chopper,” Silva told his driver briskly as he sat down on the smooth leather seat of his armored Range Rover. He glanced at the interior of the car with distaste; this was one of the less spectacular cars in his fleet._ _

__“You know MI6 will come for me,” Bond whispered through clenched teeth, staring at Silva with hatred in his eyes._ _

__Silva laughed and slid closer to Bond, who shrunk away with a snarl. He put his hand on Bond’s knee in a friendly gesture that was completely discordant to the ominous words he was about to speak._ _

__“Are you so sure about that, James? Don’t you think that it looks like you drowned, hmm? All MI6 knows is that Eve shot you and you fell off the roof of a moving train- a fall that _should _have killed you. Don’t be foolish. Nobody is looking for you.”___ _

____Bond inwardly cursed Silva because he knew that the man was right. However, the pain in his shoulder and side was making it harder and harder to think clearly. Without responding to Silva’s threats, Bond closed his eyes and attempted to meditate._ _ _ _

____“You must be in pain,” Silva said suddenly, his tone completely changed. He sounded almost worried._ _ _ _

____“No, I’m rather comfortable actually,” Bond gritted out with a smile as a spasm shot through his shattered ribs._ _ _ _

____“Here, take these,” Silva told him as he produced three white pills from a container in his jacket pocket. He pressed them into Bond’s hand and the agent swallowed them dry without a second thought._ _ _ _

____“You know, James, I very much look forward to showing you my island. Yes, it is abandoned, but it certainly has its charms… and just wait until you see my wine cellar. I myself am partial to liquor, but have one taste of this particular merlot and I am sure you will be converted. In fact, I’d also like to show you my…”_ _ _ _

____Bond slumped down into his seat as Silva’s pleasant voice grew farther and farther away. He felt his head tilt to one side and his world went foggy as the pills took effect. In a matter of moments he was asleep._ _ _ _

____\--_ _ _ _

____Bond opened his eyes groggily and instantly knew he was in a new and unfamiliar place._ _ _ _

____“Excellent, you’re awake!” Bond’s head swam as he attempted to place the friendly voice and its unfamiliar Spanish accent. Then it all came back to him: _ _“Silva.” _ _Bond heard himself say it out loud and the man sitting next to him chuckled in amusement. “Please, call me Raoul if you prefer.”___ _ _ _ __

______“I think I’d prefer Silva,” Bond said irritably as he registered the dull ache in his collarbone and side. He noticed that his handcuffs had been removed and that his drenched clothes had been replaced with an unobtrusive pair of khakis and an expensive white button-down shirt. The wounds on his shoulder and side must have been temporarily bandaged, as there was no sign of blood on the white fabric of his shirt. Bond wondered how exactly Silva had undressed him and then decided that he didn’t want to know. “Where are we?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“We’re on my plane, James. If you recall, I’m taking you to my island.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Bond said nothing and instead turned to face his kidnapper, taking in every aspect of his appearance now that he was awake and clear-headed. Silva was tall and strong looking, with a strong jaw and full, expressive lips. He was clean-shaven, and when he smiled it revealed a full row of perfect white teeth. His heavy lidded eyes gave him an almost lazy, rakish appearance, although Bond knew that what lay beneath was much more dangerous. And what color were his eyes? Brown? Blue? They were simply dark and deep, as impossible to read as they were to distinguish in color. His eyebrows and eyelashes were as blonde as the wavy hair that brushed the shoulders of his jacket- a complete contrast to the man’s tanned skin. Bond assumed that the color must be artificial, although Silva’s hair was combed back to perfection without a hint of root showing._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Do you like what you see?” Silva said playfully, his dangerous eyes crinkling at the corners._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Seeing as you’re taking me against my will, no. Decidedly not,” Bond responded deadpan, his jaw set in a firm line._ _ _ _ _ _

______“So be it,” said Silva, turning away with a smile on his lips. With a wave of his hand he summoned a smartly dressed flight attendant. “Please bring Mr. Bond something to drink. MacAllen, if you please- and one for me as well.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______The woman nodded and returned a few minutes later with two crystal glasses of scotch._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Thank you,” Silva said with a dashing smile, causing the flight attendant to blush. He handed one of the glasses to Bond and took a sip out of his own. “Exceptional, no?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Bond downed his glass in one gulp, smacking the cup carelessly down when he finished. “It’s all right.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Mr. Bond,” Silva said, leaning into Bond close enough that the agent could smell the scotch on his breath and the warm scent of his cologne, “I have a feeling that you’ll warm up to me sooner or later.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______And with that, Silva planted a tiny kiss on Bond’s astonished cheek. Bond involuntarily touched his face, almost unaware if he had imagined it or not. Silva chuckled and moved over into his own chair again as if nothing had happened._ _ _ _ _ _


	3. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to let you guys know that things DO get heated in later chapters, but I wanted to build up slowly and develop the relationship between Bond and Silva before I got to that.
> 
> I hope you're enjoying it!

They touched down in the middle of the night. Although Bond’s watch had stopped working when he had fallen into the river, the agent estimated that it must have been about 2 or 3 AM. As he stepped down out of the plane after Silva, he noticed that the breeze was warm and the air smelled like the ocean.

“Well, here we are, James. Welcome,” Silva said, stretching out his arms in a grand gesture. “Although unfortunately it’s hard to see it at this hour, I am convinced that this island will make you feel very much at home. And my hospitality couldn’t hurt,” Silva quipped, genially bumping Bond’s good arm with his fist.

“Cut the act, Silva,” Bond said louder than intended, feeling rage well up inside him. _Ridiculous. This was all ridiculous._ “We both know why you brought me here. Why don’t you just kill me already?”

Silva’s face took on a mock expression of hurt. “I’m offended, Mr. Bond. What kind of host would I be if I killed my guest before I even showed him my home?”

Bond turned away with a sound of disgust.

“Now, let’s get you to the main house. I’m afraid we’ve got a bullet to remove, yes?” Silva motioned at his men to follow them and he led the way down the tarmac, two armed guards flanking Bond at either side.

\--

By the time they reached the house, Bond was out of breath and his shoulder throbbed with unrelenting agony. Not to mention the fact that the right side of his torso was almost immobilized by his broken ribs. He stumbled on the steps to the front door and cried out in pain.

“Take my arm,” Silva told him gently, and the agent was too weak to refuse. He clung heavily to the taller man’s bicep, feeling the warmth of Silva’s skin beneath his thin jacket.

“That’s it,” Silva murmured as they crossed the threshold into the house. On the plane, Bond had imagined that they would be arriving at some austere military compound, rife with barbed wire and stark concrete walls. On the contrary, Silva’s home base appeared to be an ordinary home (save for the size, as it was huge); multiple stories with white paint and glorious columns. It had an expansive wrap-around porch, and Bond thought that it almost looked like one of those great big plantation homes that you could find in the old American South.

One of Silva’s guards turned on the lights, and Bond caught a quick glimpse of the foyer around him. It was all rich, dark wood and beautiful old furniture. An Oriental carpet stretched across the floor, and a crystal chandelier illuminated the room with a soft yellow light. The walls were lined with bookshelves. Bond only had a moment to take it all in, as Silva was ushering him through another door and down a flight of stairs, presumably to the basement.

The basement was a stark contrast to the first room Bond had seen- but perhaps it was appropriate, as Silva himself was the ultimate study in contrasts. The floor was slick black marble; the walls smooth and metallic looking. Rows of computers filled the expansive space.

_Who the hell is this man?_ Bond thought to himself, gaping at the technology before him.

“Come, James.” Silva guided Bond towards a small room separate from the rest of the basement. One on side of the room was a metal examining table, and the other side was lined with cabinets and drawers.

“You may go,” Silva said to his guards, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. “Go on, sit.” He motioned Bond to the examining table. “You must be exhausted. Now, I’m sure this won’t be exactly pleasant for you, James, but it must be done. That shrapnel can’t stay inside of you forever.”

“Are you sure about this?” Bond said guardedly, hoping that Silva had at least some medical training.

“Of course. Don’t worry,” Silva replied indulgently, taking off his sport coat and rolling up his sleeves to reveal tan, scarred forearms. After he had washed his hands, he opened a drawer and produced a pair of tweezers. “However, I don’t have any anesthetics. I hope you don’t mind,” Silva said casually as he approached Bond, eventually standing between his legs as the agent sat on the table. Bond shifted uncomfortably; Silva’s body was pressed almost flush against his and he could feel his warm breath against his face. Bond toyed with the idea of leaping up and strangling the other man, but he knew that Silva could easily overpower him.

“Are you ready?” Silva asked Bond with a smile on his full lips. The man was obviously enjoying this. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Bond replied shortly, refusing to make eye contact. He exhaled as he felt Silva’s long fingers unbutton the neck of his shirt, brushing his Adam’s apple in a manner Bond was sure wasn’t accidental. Gazing at Bond with heavy-lidded eyes, Silva slowly opened the agent’s shirt and slid it carefully down his back.

“Let’s see what we have here, hmm?” Silva murmured, gently peeling back the bloodstained bandage on Bond’s shoulder. The wound was angry and encrusted with blood, but from the looks of it Silva surmised that there should only be a few major pieces of shrapnel to remove. Bond shuddered as Silva ghosted a warm hand over his chest, lingering over his heart. “So wound up, Mr. Bond! You’d think that you were afraid of me,” Silva laughed, pressing into Bond even harder than before. Gently stroking Bond’s unshaven chin with his thumb, he leaned in so that his lips almost touched the other man’s neck. “Well, rest assured. I’m not the one out for your destruction.” Bond suppressed a shiver as he felt Silva’s teeth nip the top of his ear.

Suddenly Silva withdrew, all business again. “Try not to move,” he instructed Bond, laying a towel at the agent’s side and leaning in with the tweezers in hand. Bracing one hand on Bond’s thigh, Silva dipped the tweezers into Bond’s wound with perfect precision and began to seek out the first piece of shrapnel from Patrice’s bullet. He found it in seconds. Bond hissed in pain, but he had to admit: Silva knew what he was doing.

\--

“There, that’s the last of it,” Silva remarked with satisfaction a few minutes later, neatly laying the last piece of bloody shrapnel on the towel. Bond sighed in relief, realizing that he had been grinding his teeth the whole time.

“Well, how do you feel? Grateful to me?” Silva asked suddenly, meeting Bond’s eyes with a new intensity.

Bond had no idea what he was talking about. “Why should I feel grateful to you? You’re the one who hired Patrice in the first place,” the agent retorted, his face betraying his confusion.

“Ah ah ah, _I’m_ not the one you should blame for your current state,” Silva replied cunningly, a smile that looked more like a grimace building on his face. “You and I both know that M was the one who sent you on that mission- James, she was the one who ordered your fellow field agent to shoot you!”

Bond curled his lip, refusing to indulge the man with a response. His mind whirled with confusion: How did Silva know who M was? And why did his face turn savage at the very mention of her name?

Then Silva’s tone changed. In a low, dangerous voice, he whispered, “James. Let’s not forget who’s in control in this situation, hmm?” And with that, he pressed his index finger into the newly cleaned wound on Bond’s shoulder, gently probing downward into raw flesh until the agent grunted in agony.

“You’re insane,” spat Bond, biting his lip in pain until he tasted blood. “And?” Silva retorted with a smirk, fondly meeting the agent’s gaze.

“Just—just stop!” Bond gritted out, writing in pain as Silva twisted his finger deeper into the wound. “Now where’s the fun in that?” Silva laughed, but seeing the agony on the injured man’s face he took on a more serious tone. “James. I want you to beg for me.”

“Goddamnit! I—“ Bond broke off, his body shaking from exertion. Despite the pain, the agent was still able to rationally assess the situation. He could almost hear M’s voice in his head: _Don’t give him what he wants._ And normally, he wouldn’t. Bond had been tortured more times than he could count. But this time was… different. Silva wasn’t trying to extract any kind of information from him that could compromise MI6; rather, he appeared to be seeking a more personal validation from Bond. It was a power play if nothing else, and did Bond really have anything to lose by humoring him?

Bond took the jump. “I—Fine. Please, Silva. Please stop.”

“All right,” Silva said calmly, instantly removing his finger from the bullet hole. Bond lay panting in relief on the examining table, a slick sheen of sweat coating his body.

Silva turned away again, opening another drawer to retrieve a needle and medical thread. “I’m sure you’re no stranger to stitches, Mr. Bond. As am I,” he said with a smile, glancing down at a particularly nasty scar on his forearm. Bond shrank away as Silva loomed over him, needle in hand.

“Shh, I’m not going to hurt you. Now, allow me…” Silva began delicately stitching up the wound in Bond’s shoulder, his dark eyes intense with concentration. Bond marveled at his skill; Silva was better at this than he had ever been.

“There,” Silva said softly as he made the last stitch. “All done, yes?” He cupped Bond’s face in his hands, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Now, about your ribs…”

\--

Thirty minutes later, James Bond lay shaking in Raoul Silva’s arms, tears streaming down his face. Although there had been no shrapnel in the wound Eve’s bullet had inflicted on his side, three of his ribs had been broken and Silva had lightly bound them with a cold compress. Before giving Bond this relief, however, Silva had forcefully pressed into the agent’s side with both of his hands, deepening the bruises until Bond had screamed in pain.

“James, I’m trying to break you because I want you to be free. Only when you have lost everything can you truly understand me,” Silva had whispered into Bond’s ear as the man’s ribs cracked beneath him.

And when he finally stopped, it was beautiful.

Completely spent, Bond curled up into the fetal position on the examining table with his head on Silva’s lap. Tutting softly, Silva stroked Bond’s hair and murmured to him in Spanish until the agent slipped into unconsciousness once more.


	4. Follow

When Bond woke up hours later, he was alone. Opening his eyes, the agent realized that he was no longer in Silva’s basement. Rather, he was lying in a ridiculous king-sized bed, propped up with layers of silky blankets and pillows. Bond noted that his clothes had been changed yet again: this time, he was clad in a rather tight-fitting blue button-down shirt and a pair of casual linen pants. The room around him was dark, but from what he could see of it Bond assumed that he was in a guestroom. He must have slept until the following evening…

As Bond’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he was able to discern that there was a gorgeous lacquered desk on one side of the room, and the walls were lined with gold-framed oil paintings. The hardwood floors were partially covered by a thick Oriental rug- _expensive,_ Bond surmised. On his left side was a wooden bedside table with a glass of water and two pain pills. As Bond reached over to inspect them, he found a note pinned beneath the water glass:

_Take these when you wake up. RS._

Bond hesitated, his MI6 training telling him to forego the pills and keep his wits about him. But his shoulder was throbbing and his ribs ached, and the constant pain convinced him otherwise. Bond swallowed the pills and greedily gulped down the water, his throat dry and scratchy. He realized that he was absolutely starving. 

A sort of panic descended over the agent as it sunk in that absolutely nobody knew where he was. In fact, nobody knew that he was even _alive._ He imagined M writing his obituary; imagined his memorial service. A flag draped over an empty coffin…

The only way out was to fight.

Bond scanned the room around him in hopes of locating a potential weapon. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and tentatively stood up, swaying on his feet. _Good. This was good: he could walk_. In fact, his ribs felt a little less agonizing than yesterday- maybe he could even stand his own against Silva. 

Bond crossed the room and began opening the drawers of the wooden desk, looking for some kind of blunt instrument. Or at least something sharp… He located nothing of consequence but a ballpoint pen. That could work in a pinch; he had once shoved one up an enemy’s nose and killed him. He slipped the pen into his pants pocket.

Moving stealthily, Bond sidled up to the bedroom door and tentatively turned the handle. Locked. _Damn._ The only other way out appeared to be the window, but Bond’s heart sank as he realized that his room was on the top story of the house. Even if he somehow managed to jump, the window was most likely equipped with an alarm and Silva’s men would be upon him before he could escape. 

This wasn’t looking promising.

 _Click._ Bond spun around in surprise as he heard the door handle turn behind him. And then Silva’s deep purr of a voice: “I see you’re awake, Mr. Bond.” 

Silva swung open the door and stood on the threshold, the brightly lit hallway behind him illuminating his blonde hair to white. Bond squinted as the man approached him, shielding his eyes from the sudden change in light. 

“I see you’ve been looking for a possible escape route. You needn’t worry, there isn’t one,” Silva said happily, circling Bond to stand at his side. “Oh, and you can leave behind that pen you’ve got in your pocket. Seems a bit of a crude way to kill someone, hmm?”

Bond cursed himself inwardly, dropping the pen on his bedside table. Of course the room had been bugged.

“I’m guessing you must be hungry. Would you like to join me for dinner?”

Without waiting for a response, Silva motioned at Bond to follow him into the hall. The agent trailed behind him, suspicious but too famished to care.

\--

After descending several flights of stairs, Silva led Bond into a beautifully decorated dining room. This room was less opulent than the others; more intimate, somehow. The walls were painted a rich reddish color, and the main source of lighting came from several candles burning low and golden on top of the rustic oak dinner table. On the opposite side of the room there was a great picture window that looked out onto the night. Bond could see the great silvery swath that was the ocean, the moon casting a ghostly white light on the waves. In the distance there appeared to be a cluster of tall buildings that were crumbling in disrepair. Bond wondered just how big this island was after all.

“Please, sit,” offered Silva, the picture of hospitality. He pulled out a corner chair for his guest and sat down at the head of the table so that he was sitting adjacent to Bond, yet still able to look him in the eye. The two men appeared to be alone, but Bond wouldn’t doubt that there was an armed guard around the corner listening to their every word.

Bond shrewdly eyed Silva, taking in every aspect of his appearance. As usual, the man was clean-shaven and his hair was swept back in soft waves over his shoulders. The light from the candles lent his skin a golden glow, and he was wearing a dark red silk shirt with a muted tan dinner jacket on top. As Silva leaned back comfortably in his seat, Bond noted the shining gold watch on the man’s wrist. _Rolex._ Silva obviously had money, but Bond had no idea how he earned it. However, the agent suspected that it had something to do with the rows and rows of computers he had seen in the basement. 

“I think you’ll like this, James. It’s my grandmother’s recipe,” Silva said confidentially, imperceptibly shifting closer to Bond as several servers presented them with plates of steaming food. “And this wine is the perfect complement,” he added, filling Bond’s glass with a deep red merlot that one of the waiters had placed on the table.

Bond looked at the food suspiciously, wondering if it might be drugged. He had to admit, it _did_ look delicious- it was some sort of _paella_ , full of plump shrimp and spicy sausage.

“Don’t worry, it’s safe to eat,” Silva chuckled, easily reading Bond’s unsure expression. To prove his point, he snagged the biggest shrimp off of Bond’s plate with his fork and popped it in his mouth. “Perfect,” Silva smiled, chewing.

Bond didn’t need any more convincing, and he dug into his portion as if he hadn’t eaten in years. The food was very good, and he registered that Silva was watching him with a pleased expression as he ate.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Silva laughed as Bond finished his plate in a matter of seconds. “I’ll have them bring you another one.”

Bond stared at Silva, wondering exactly what this man wanted from him. He had made no attempts to extract MI6-related information; he hadn’t tried to kill Bond yet… so what was he playing at?

Silva grinned broadly as if he could read the agent’s mind. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, sliding his hand across the table so that his fingers were barely touching Bond’s own. “You’re wondering why I brought you here, yes? Don’t worry, it will all become clear very soon. You and I will take a little walk after you finish that,” he said as Bond tucked into his second serving of paella, “and I will tell you everything. What do you say to that?” 

Bond grunted through his mouthful of food, and Silva smiled affectionately. “Wonderful.” 


	5. Fire

After Bond had finished eating, to his dismay Silva took him by the arm and led him out the front door and into the balmy night. The agent shrunk away at the other man’s touch, but knew that to refuse it would be foolish. Bond was completely under Silva’s control, and he knew that compliance would be the best way to ensure his survival.

“Exactly where are we, Silva?” Bond said suddenly, realizing that those were the first words he had spoken all night.

“Ah, you’re talking!” said Silva joyously, running his broad hand down Bond’s arm in a display of affection. “We are in the South China Sea, on the island --well, the former island-- of Hashima.”

Bond stared at him. Hadn’t the island of Hashima been evacuated after a radioactivity scare several years before?

“It’s a wonderful thing, the internet,” Silva said expansively, surveying the desolate buildings in the distance with a look of satisfaction on his face.

“Did you know that people will believe almost anything if they read it from a reputable source?” he continued, smiling. “Just one strike of a key, and _bip_! And a rumor is born. In this case, it was the rumor of a chemical leak. So foolish, most of them left without taking any of their belongings… leaving the island empty and ready to be taken.”

“And now it’s _my_ island. Impressive, no?” Silva looked at Bond expectantly, as if hoping for his approval.

“Well, I don’t know if I’d call it that,” Bond said slowly, reeling from the impact of the man’s words.

_So Silva is a cyberterrorist. Figures._

“Let’s keep going. I have so much to show you, James!” Silva bounded ahead of Bond like an overgrown child, his blonde hair falling rakishly in his face.

Bond followed Silva at a slight distance, quickly analyzing his surroundings. They appeared to be heading towards a cluster of abandoned buildings that loomed black against the light of the moon. The air was still but for the sound of the ocean. It was almost eerie how desolate the place was, and Bond felt a bit of sadness for the people who had left it behind years before.

“This one is my favorite,” Silva called over his shoulder as they approached what appeared to be an old hotel building. He waited for Bond to catch up and tugged playfully at the agent’s shirtsleeve. “Let me show you the inside.”

Silva pulled open the defunct automatic doors with his hands, and the two men stepped inside the abandoned building. Bond’s eyes widened as he scanned the massive entrance. The floors were paved with glittering black marble that shone despite being covered with cracks, and there was an immense koi pond in the center of the room that was now overgrown with moss and weeds. Bond could hear the sound of dripping water and the faint moan of the wind as it blew around the building’s walls.

“Beautiful, no? Just look at that.” Silva gestured at an immense window that made up the building’s north wall, and Bond marveled at the view of the dark ocean and the millions of stars visible in the night sky.

“It is beautiful,” Bond said uncharacteristically softly, for a moment forgetting whom he was talking to.

Silva suddenly moved to stand in front of him, and Bond could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“James,” he purred gently, stroking impossibly soft fingers along the agent’s jawline. “James. You don’t know it, but we are so very much alike.”

Silva advanced forward, and Bond slowly stepped back, never breaking eye contact. The two men moved in sync until Bond could feel the cold smoothness of the wall against his back.

_No escape._

“You look so nervous,” Silva murmured softly, bracing his arms against the wall against either side of Bond so that the agent was caught between them.

Bond felt his pulse speed up, and he hoped that Silva couldn’t hear him breathing faster. _Was this Silva’s idea of a game?_ At first he had thought that the other man was simply trying to manipulate him, but this had crossed a delicate line… Bond sensed that Silva might have something more than intimidation on his mind.

Bond inhaled sharply as Silva leaned in and grazed his lips against his ear, his breath hot and sweet-smelling against the agent’s neck. Silva pressed his body against Bond’s, slowly grinding his hips into the other man’s. Bond gasped, his eyes closing involuntarily in bliss as Silva’s knee rolled into his crotch.

 _What the hell am I doing?_ Bond thought to himself, but it was too late: he was lost in the moment, his rational side overpowered by lust.

Bond had always considered himself sexually fluid- in fact, most successful agents were. It would certainly be a political disadvantage for him to refuse any kind of physical intimacy if it would benefit MI6, even if it was with another man. Although the agent generally preferred women, he couldn’t deny the fact that this felt _good._ And Silva was so persistent… Bond let out a stifled moan as he felt the other man’s erection press against his own straining heat.

“James, ” Silva whispered hoarsely as he felt the agent’s body respond to his ministrations. He took Bond’s face in his strong hands, looking into the agent’s bright blue eyes as they rapidly darkened with involuntary arousal.

Tenderly, even chastely, Silva kissed him, his lips warm and full against Bond’s own. It was almost too hesitant; too intimate, Bond thought to himself, temporarily frozen with surprise. Soon, however, Bond returned the kiss, leaning into the other man as Silva traced a gentle hand over his chest. Silva’s mouth was warm and honey-sweet, and his tongue tangled gloriously with Bond’s as the agent sucked on his full lower lip.

But suddenly, Bond detected something foreign in the other man’s mouth- something hard and imperceptibly cooler than the rest of his body. Silva felt the agent stiffen in his arms and broke the kiss, slowly pulling away and looking at Bond with an unreadable expression on his face. Bond thought that the man’s eyes looked almost black, and for a moment he was afraid.

When Silva finally spoke, his voice was completely flat.

“I think it’s time I tell you who I am.”


	6. Burnout

Silva turned on his heel and walked away from Bond, leaving the agent feeling empty as his temporary arousal subsided.

“I suppose I might as well tell you,” Silva said quietly, his shoes making a flat sound as he paced the marble floor. “Once, I was much like you. I used to be a MI6 agent. Double-oh." 

Bond’s jaw dropped slightly, temporarily stunned into silence. _Silva was ex-MI6?_

“That explains a lot,” Bond muttered, finding his voice again.

Silva laughed darkly. “Yes. I was once an idealist like you, uncorrupted by betrayal. I was M’s favorite too, you know. My name was Tiago Rodriguez.”

 _Tiago Rodriguez…_ The name sounded familiar. Hadn’t Bond seen that name on MI6’s memorial wall?

“But years ago, everything changed when MI6 handed me over to the Chinese government in an exchange for 6 other captured agents,” Silva continued, clenching his jaw as he remembered. “They held me there for six months. Torturing me without end.”

Bond’s chest felt tight as he remembered the countless scars that marred Silva’s chest. Now he knew the agony behind them.

“They took my will to live and destroyed it. All I had left was the cyanide capsule in my molar. So I took it. But you know what happened then, James? I didn’t die.”

Silva laughed harshly, wrapping his shaking arms around himself as if for protection. “No. _Life clung to me like a disease._ ”

Silva paused, gathering the strength to continue. “Of course, hydrogen cyanide does leave its scars. It burned my insides, James. Ripped my face to shreds,” he said flatly, gesturing at his left cheek.

Bond shuddered as he realized the implications of Silva’s words. _The perfect teeth… the artificial feel of Silva’s mouth…_ The man had been injured beyond comprehension.

“She betrayed me,” Silva said softly, the crack in his voice betraying his pain. “M. She left me there to die without a second thought.”

There was silence for a moment, the faint drops of water falling from the ceiling the only audible sound.

“So what do you think of me?” Bond finally whispered, his voice echoing in the vast space. “Me, running around for Queen and Country… chasing spies.”

Silva turned slowly to face him, his eyes burning with an unearthly anger.

“You?” he replied quietly, his hands clenched at his sides. “James, I think your day is coming to an end.”

Bond reflected on this before answering. “What do you mean?”

Silva began to pace slowly across the marble floor.

“Let me ask you something,” he mused quietly, not meeting Bond’s eyes.

“Did you know that when a star dies, you can still see its light for a million more years? The star is cold and burnt out,” he said, his dark, inscrutable eyes looking into Bond’s own, “but due to its distance from Earth, it still appears to shine.”

“But this is only a projection; a trick of the light. Perhaps many of the stars we see above us now are really dead,” he said darkly as he gestured to the great window opposite them.

“And so with people,” Silva continued as he turned away from Bond, his fists clenched at his sides.

“James, I believe that you burnt out a long time ago. Perhaps when _she_ died,” he said with a pointed look, and he didn’t even have to say her name. _Vesper._ James knew it had to be Vesper.

“And yet you continue to feign your love for queen and country. You continue to follow _her_ every order” ---and this time James knew that by “her,” Silva meant M--- “but do you really believe in MI6? Or are you just a shell of the man you once were? Dead on the inside, hmm?”

For once, James didn’t have a witty response. For once, maybe Silva was right. He chose his next words carefully.

“And what about you, Silva? Are you dead?”

Silva slowly turned on his heel with an awful smile growing on his face. In the dim lighting his skin and hair looked unearthly pale.

“Yes, James. I am dead. Tiago Rodriguez died many years ago on the floor of an anonymous cell in a Chinese prison. But the difference between you and me is that I don’t pretend to be alive any more.”

Silva traced an old burn mark on the back of his hand as he spoke. “M has betrayed you so many times. And yet you still pretend to be loyal to her. Why? When she left me to die in the hands of my enemies, I made no attempt to rekindle my past loyalties. The fire was out; I was gone.” He laughed bitterly.

“Look at yourself now, James. In the eyes of MI6, you’re already dead. Notice that nobody has come looking for you, hmm?” Silva looked the agent in the eye, challenging him. 

Bond met the challenge. “So what do you want with a dead man?”

Silva grinned broadly, showing a shark-like set of perfect white teeth.

“I want you to join me." 

He began to walk and motioned Bond to follow him, his next words ringing in the empty space of the abandoned building:

“We can be dead together.”


	7. Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh God, it's finally here. Warning: this chapter is verrry nsfw >:)

Bond followed Silva out of the hotel and back towards the house, still reeling from the barrage of information he had just received. At this point, he only knew two things for sure:

Silva was a madman.

And he might have a point.

Bond watched Silva stride ahead of him confidently, the vulnerability that he had just shown apparently completely hidden. _They were alike that way,_ Bond thought to himself. To be a successful agent, you had to build walls. You couldn’t afford to let people in.

As he walked, Bond couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that perhaps Silva was _right._ It was true: nobody had come looking for him. He was getting older by the day, becoming less of an asset to MI6 and more of an expendable. As Silva had implied, could his “death” really have been a new lease on life? It slowly dawned on the agent that everything had changed. Silva had certainly altered his perspective- it only remained to be seen whether it was permanent.

The old saying, “ _if you can’t beat them, join them_ ” echoed in Bond’s ears.

He had only been with Silva for a few days, and yet he felt that he understood the man completely. This revelation was stunning: the life of an MI6 agent was a lonely one, and Bond hadn’t felt so evenly matched in years. He and Silva were two sides of the same coin.

Silva was his darker half.

And Bond couldn’t ignore the fact that he was, well, _attracted_ to the man. There had been so many women, all submissive and forgettable. Silva was not someone he could easily forget. It was odd, but the notion that the ex-agent was just as charismatic and potentially lethal as Bond himself made the agent want him even more.

Not just anyone could pin James Bond to a wall and get away with it.

As they approached the redeveloped portion of the island, Bond noticed that Silva had stopped next to the dock and was looking out on the moonlit ocean, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

Bond caught up to the other man and stood silently at his side, almost close enough to touch him.

When Silva spoke his voice was calm and low, and Bond almost wondered if the broken man who had spoken to him of torture and betrayal had ever even existed.

“I have always loved the ocean. Shall we go out on my boat?”

Bond gave a small nod, and the two men walked out on the dock to where Silva’s boat was tied down.

It wasn’t a boat, really; it was more like a yacht. Bond saw that the word “Cielo” had been painted on one huge, sleek side. _Sky._

Bond climbed up on deck after Silva, who then untied the ropes to free the yacht from its dock. The agent settled into the co-pilot seat as Silva took the helm, turning on the ship’s engine to a surprisingly quiet purr.

For a while Silva simply guided the yacht in a wide arc around the island, Bond closing his eyes to enjoy the salt spray and the sound of the waves. Thinking of nothing, the agent allowed himself to relax completely.

Then they went out to sea. Silva piloted the yacht with a quiet intensity, every so often glancing over at Bond as if to make sure he was still there. Each time he turned and saw that the agent had not, in fact, jumped ship, a tiny smile broke out upon his face.

Silva cut the engine when they were in the middle of the ocean, his island a thin dark strip in the distance. It was still night, but the sky appeared to be lightening from black to a deep indigo. The sea was calm, and the tiny waves made a pleasant lapping sound as they washed over the hull of the yacht.

Bond rose from his seat and walked over to the edge of the deck, resting his elbows on the railing. After a moment Silva joined him, and the two men stood side by side in a peaceful silence that seemed to stretch for hours.

Bond was the first one to speak again. “Silva.”

“Hmm?” Silva murmured absently, apparently lost in memory.

“What exactly are you offering me?”

Silva turned to look at Bond, his eyes warm. “I’m not offering you anything. But what I’m _asking_ you is to stay.” He moved closer to Bond, the sea breeze tossing his pale hair around his face. His next words were soft, confidential.

“Now is your chance to get out forever. As far as England is concerned, you died when Eve put a bullet in you on top of that train in Istanbul. What’s the lifespan of a typical double-oh agent, hmm? A few years, tops? Think about it, James.”

To Silva’s surprise, Bond reached out a tentative hand to touch the other man’s chest, his fingertips ghosting over a scar that barely emerged from beneath his shirt collar. Silva mused that the agent’s hands were strangely tender for a man who had killed dozens of people. After a moment Bond looked up to meet Silva’s gaze, his bright blue eyes sparkling with unexpected humor.

“I _am_ thinking about it. The fact that I haven’t killed you yet should make that pretty obvious,” Bond retorted, fixing Silva with a challenging glare.

Silva threw back his head and laughed; a genuine, rich sound that brought an involuntarily smile to Bond’s face. Perhaps Silva wasn’t as dead as he claimed to be after all.  

“ _You_ kill _me_?” Silva chuckled, taking Bond’s wrist in his hand and pressing his thumb over the steady pulse. “Mr. Bond, you forget who you’re talking to.”

And then Silva was kissing him, and Bond allowed himself to fall into the ex-agent’s arms and lose himself. The kiss was rough, dangerous; a shared moment between two murderers. Bond feverishly tangled his fingers into Silva’s soft blonde hair, wanting to _own_ him. To melt into him. Silva responded by biting Bond’s lip hard enough to draw blood, and the agent let out a tiny groan that made the other man’s head spin.

Silva’s mouth was hot and deep and in that moment Bond never wanted to leave. He could feel the hard metal that made up Silva’s left jaw, and it occurred to him that he didn’t care. _The man was broken, but so was he._

Silva’s arms were wrapped around Bond’s back, pulling the agent into a bottomless embrace. Bond’s ribs ached in protest, but the agent ignored the pain and pressed his body even harder into Silva’s.

When they finally broke the kiss, both men were breathing hard and Silva’s inscrutable eyes were black with desire, his mask of composure quickly disintegrating. Bond could see the madness within and a wave of arousal crashed over him.

When Bond finally managed to speak, his voice was ragged. “I want you. Now.”

\--

The two men stumbled into the cabin, Silva leading the way to a surprisingly large bedroom that was richly furnished in shades of neutral and gold. Bond roughly pushed the other man on top of the opulent king-sized bed, his pupils blown wide with desire. Silva laughed and pulled the agent down with him, snarling as Bond’s own rapidly hardening erection ground into his own.

“I want you to take me,” Silva whispered hoarsely into Bond’s ear, feeling the agent shudder as the words sent a thrill of pleasure to his groin.

Bond athletically rolled on top of the other man, frantically tearing at Silva’s shirt buttons. For once, Silva didn’t care if his clothes were ruined, and he moaned as Bond expertly palmed his straining cock through the tented fabric of his linen pants.

“Take off your clothes,” Silva ordered Bond in a dangerous voice as he quickly stripped himself of his own pants, leaving him clad only in a pair of silk boxers. Bond regarded the writhing form beneath him, a filthy smile playing across his handsome face. He was going to take his time with this.

Silva’s eyes appreciatively raked over Bond’s toned torso as the agent slowly unbuttoned his shirt, his muscled arms rippling. “Don’t be such a tease, James,” Silva growled as the other man painfully slowly undid his pants and slipped them down his tanned legs, his rock-hard length plainly visible underneath his thin grey briefs.   

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that good things only come to those who wait?” Bond retorted, a gleam in his eye.

Without waiting for a response, Bond fluidly sunk on all fours and straddled Silva’s body, the muscles in his back coiled and shifting. _Predatory._

Bond never broke eye contact with the other man as he moved in for the kill, crushing his mouth on Silva’s and sucking lasciviously on his lower lip. Silva closed his eyes tightly and groaned through the kiss as Bond grinded his hips against him, only a thin layer of fabric enhancing the friction between their straining cocks.

Bond broke the kiss and grinned lewdly as Silva bucked beneath him, his arms gripping the headboard behind him and his painfully hard erection pressing against the agent’s thighs. He then dipped his head and began sucking on Silva’s neck, eliciting a shiver of pleasure from the other man. Silva’s skin was burning hot and he smelled good, like soap and spicy cologne.

Bond had always prided himself on being a generous lover, and he reveled in the desperate mewling sounds Silva made as the agent trailed kisses down his muscular chest and around his hardening nipples.

Bond paused momentarily to gently stroke the pinkish ridge of a scar that cut across Silva’s left ribs. Arching his back, Silva gazed up at him, all the old hurt in his dark eyes replaced with trust and simple bliss. Bond felt the sudden urge to protect him, although he knew that Silva didn’t need protecting. Bond wanted to _fix him_ , to make him whole again.

_Well, this had to be a start._

A smirk on his face, Bond tantalizingly hooked his fingers around the band of Silva’s boxers and slowly pulled them down his legs. Silva groaned, a sharp flare of pleasure slicing through him as his throbbing cock was exposed. Bond gazed down at him, slowly exhaling appreciatively as he took in Silva’s heavy, thickly veined length.

As he watched Silva grinning up lazily from beneath him, Bond felt himself grow harder than he had ever thought possible, and after only a second of deliberation the agent ripped off his briefs as if they were on fire. Silva’s eyes widened as Bond’s rock-hard erection was exposed, its almost purple tip shining with pre-come.

“Perfect,” Silva whispered hoarsely, licking his suddenly dry lips.

His eyes heavy-lidded with arousal, Bond slowly dragged his fingernails down Silva’s chest, leaving shallow marks that welled with tiny pinpricks of blood. Silva threw his head back and moaned, arching into Bond’s touch as he felt the agent’s thick cock brush against his own. Bond resumed his trail of kisses down Silva’s chest, this time getting dangerously close to his groin. The agent sucked on one of Silva’s thickly muscled hips, his hot breath washing over the other man’s erection and making him tense up with pleasure.

Staring at Silva challengingly, Bond moved over and hovered over his pulsing cock, his tempting mouth only centimeters away from making contact.

Silva groaned deeply and canted his hips upward, desperate for the other man’s touch.

“ _Dios_. James… Please,” Silva moaned roughly, a light layer of sweat breaking out over his body.

James smiled at him darkly, his blue eyes dark with lust. And then he took Silva’s full length in his mouth.

Silva groaned in ecstasy, his Adam’s apple bobbing enticingly along the curve of his throat as his blindingly hard cock was engulfed in the hot wetness of Bond’s mouth. His breath came out in tiny whimpers as Bond sucked him down to the back of his throat, tightly swallowing his full girth with practiced ease. His eyes slitted with pleasure, Bond slowly licked his way down Silva’s length, lingering at the head to tongue the slit. Silva bucked with the unexpected pleasure, a strangled mewl escaping his throat.

_God, Bond was good at this._

Silva felt his climax approaching quickly as his cock pulsed deep inside the other man’s mouth.

“James, I’m so close,” he warned, his voice hoarse with arousal.

Bond reluctantly withdrew his mouth from Silva’s slick, darkening cock, a smear of pre-come on his full lower lip.

Silva jumped as the agent closed his fist around the base of his erection, pulling it upwards to stave off his orgasm.

“Better?” Bond smiled, his eyes hungry with lust.

Silva responded by grabbing Bond’s cock and clasping it against his own, the agent’s saliva creating a glorious contrast of friction and wetness.

Bond hissed through his teeth, his eyes shutting tightly in pleasure. “God. Yes,” he muttered, canting his hips upward as Silva slowly stimulated his burning cock.

“James,” Silva whispered, deftly circling his fingers around the tip of Bond’s length. “I want you inside of me. Now.”

Bond didn’t need to be told twice. Quickly producing a condom packet and a bottle of lube from the bedside table, the agent rolled the rubber over his twitching erection and rubbed a generous amount of lubricant over the length.

Silva began to turn over on his stomach, but Bond stopped him. “No. I want to watch you fall apart.”

Silva’s eyes darkened at Bond’s words and he smiled a predator’s smile. “You continue to surprise me.”

Silva moaned in a mixture of anticipation and frustration, grinding down on Bond’s hand as the agent expertly prepped him and began to slowly open him up. “James, please. Just fuck me,” he growled, his hips bucking forward as Bond added yet another finger. “So impatient!” Bond laughed. Nevertheless, he withdrew his fingers and positioned himself at Silva’s entrance. “Are you ready?”

“I was ready the first time I saw you,” Silva whispered, closing his eyes in pleasure as his cock rubbed against Bond’s stomach. “Please. _Take me.”_

Bond snarled and sunk himself deep into Silva’s tight heat, letting out a shout as blinding pleasure overwhelmed him. Silva groaned and bit his lip as Bond began to thrust deliciously slowly inside of him, raking his nails down the agent’s back.

Bond was lost, unable to think of anything but how good this felt. How it was somehow _right._ He and Silva were two broken halves that had been reunited, and it was perfect.

Silva groaned as Bond hit his prostate with every stroke, clenching himself around the agent’s throbbing length. “ _Duro_ ,” he gritted out, cupping Bond’s ass and forcing him deeper inside. “Harder.” Silva reveled in the feeling of being completely filled; completely dominated by the other man. Sex was one of the rare moments in his life in which he allowed himself to relinquish control.

Bond complied, ramming into Silva with renewed force as the man writhed in ecstasy beneath him. “God, James. I’m close,” Silva moaned, gasping out a stream of broken Spanish curses. Bond reached down and grabbed Silva’s cock with his fist, slowly stroking down his length until he felt the man begin convulse with pleasure. Silva let out a strangled shout as his climax suddenly overtook him, hotly spilling over onto Bond’s stomach and thighs.

“Don’t stop,” Silva moaned, his eyes glazed over with pleasure.

Bond groaned as he felt Silva tighten around his length and knew that his own orgasm was fast approaching. His heart sped up as he regarded the man beneath him, who was smiling up at him with an expression of bliss on his face. Then he felt Silva’s hand deftly snake up to cup his balls, and it was all over. With a deep groan, Bond spilled his hot release into the other man, his cock pulsing wildly with unbearable pleasure.

\---

Bond collapsed onto the other man’s chest, momentarily unable to breathe. Silva hummed gently into Bond’s ear, gently stroking the agent’s hair with his fingers.

For a while the two men just lay there, sharing heartbeats.

Exhausted, Bond finally withdrew himself from Silva and collapsed next to him on the sheets, pulling off the used condom and tossing it in the adjacent trash bin.

Silva turned and curled his warm body into Bond’s, the two men fitting together perfectly. The moment was tender; intimate. It was wonderful. 

Bond could feel Silva’s warm breath tickle his neck as he nuzzled into his hair.

“James?” There was a note of vulnerability in his voice.

“Yes, Raoul?” And Bond felt Silva smile behind him, because that was the first time he had used the man’s first name.

“Thank you.”

Bond responded by turning over to face the other man, trailing a gentle hand down Silva’s chest. “You’re welcome.”

Then Silva kissed him, and it was not like the other times that they had kissed. This kiss was not full of murder or lust; rather, it was a kiss of understanding. Of trust.

A ray of light entered the port window and settled over their entwined bodies, and Bond realized that it was dawn.

A few minutes later, he was asleep in Silva’s arms.


	8. Resolutions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end of Expect the Unexpected. Bittersweet... I had so much fun writing this and I hope you all enjoyed it. Thank you so much for the kudos and comments!

Bond awoke a few hours later to the sounds of Silva showering. The agent slipped out of bed and padded silently to the bathroom, still naked from his earlier tryst. Bond smiled as he saw Silva’s bronzed, muscular form silhouetted against the glass shower door, the steam from the hot water regrettably obscuring part of his view.

Bond slid open the door and stepped inside the shower, pressing his body against Silva’s from behind and wrapping his arms around the other man’s body. Silva hummed in approval, turning around in Bond’s loose embrace to press a kiss on the agent’s lips.

“Good morning,” Silva murmured, tracing a soapy hand down the edge of Bond’s chiseled jawline.

Bond returned the kiss, brushing Silva’s soaking blonde hair out of the man’s face in an uncharacteristically tender gesture.

Remarkably, the two men managed to get through about half of the shower without incident.

Bond broke first, shoving Silva against the tiled wall and grinding his body against him, his need evident in the roughness of his kiss and the rapidly swelling length of his manhood that Silva could feel pressed against his thigh.

Silva growled with desire, pushing Bond back with equal urgency. And so it began, the two men completely lost in a mixture of bloodlust and arousal.

\--

They emerged from the shower thirty minutes later, exhausted and flushed with post-sex euphoria.

Silva lent Bond a pair of casual slacks and a patterned shirt (which Bond personally deemed overly flamboyant, but the agent bit his tongue and wore it).

“What do you say we go back to the mainland and get something to eat?” Silva asked Bond as he affectionately buttoned up the other man’s shirt.

“Sounds good,” Bond replied, his stomach growling at the mention of food.

The two men climbed out of the cabin and onto the deck, and as Bond began to lower himself into the co-captain’s seat Silva stopped him with a wave of his hand.

“How would you like to drive?”

Bond grinned in response and took the helm, running his hands over the sleek wood trim of the dash. The agent loved driving anything _fast_ , whether it be a car, a boat, or a jet. Silva laughed as Bond gunned the engine and turned the yacht sharply towards land, sending a tall spray of salt-water arcing into the air. “I’ve created a monster!”

\---

After a short joyride, Bond reluctantly turned the yacht into the harbor and cut the engine, leaping off onto the dock to secure the ropes.

Silva clambered down behind him and the two men set off for the house, walking in amicable silence. Bond stole a glance at his companion and noted that Silva seemed happy- not the manic, unhinged glee he had lapsed into so many times before, but rather something simpler. More genuine.

As Bond entered the front door of the house, he noted appreciatively how lovely the warm-hued walls and rich hardwood floors were as the late-morning sun illuminated them. Silva’s taste was so different from that of Bond’s own spotless, spartan flat in England, and the agent had to admit that he preferred it.

Bond briefly wondered what would happen if he _stayed._ The possibility was at once alluring and terrifying- to stay would mean to finally let someone else in again. Silva had managed to affect him emotionally in ways Bond hadn’t felt since Vesper, and the agent was constantly battling the urge to push him away.

 _It would certainly be easier to let this die,_ Bond thought to himself. But deep within him, the agent knew that he didn’t want to.

Silva led Bond out onto a balcony that overlooked the sea, the two men basking in the warm ocean breeze as they took their seats at a small wrought iron table.

Silva glanced over at Bond as if to make sure he was real. Although his companion appeared to be perfectly at ease, nevertheless a small tinge of nervousness coursed through Silva’s body.

 _This is too good to be true_ , Silva thought to himself, quickly covering up the perturbed expression that had settled over his face with a broad smile.

His brief flash of uncertainty did not go unnoticed by Bond, however. As one of Silva’s men stepped out on the balcony to present them with a platter of warm scones, fruit, and breakfast tea, Bond edged indelibly closer to the other man and chose his next words carefully. 

“What are you thinking about?” Bond said casually, the concern in his blue eyes a contrast to his seemingly flippant tone.

Silva paused before answering, his dark eyes looking far away out to sea.

“Can this last, James?” he murmured eventually, turning to face Bond with a look that fleetingly communicated all his fears of betrayal; all his vulnerability and hesitation to trust.

“Does anything last, really?”

Bond paused, for a moment unsure of how to respond. He tentatively slid a hand across the table and took the other man’s fingers in his own, flipping Silva’s hand over to touch an old burn scar that ran along the inside of his wrist.

“It’s been too long,” began Bond softly, almost afraid to say the wrong thing. He had never been good with words- well, words that actually _meant_ something. Bond specialized in seduction, meaningless compliments and sweet nothings rolling off his tongue with masterful ease. This, however, was uncharted territory, and the agent found himself grasping at straws.

Bond pressed on. “It’s been too long since I’ve felt complete. When you kill for a living, it’s so easy to lose sight of yourself…”

Bond swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “I think that perhaps that day I fell off that train, I was already dead. And you…”

Bond trailed off, unable to find the words that truly expressed the way he felt. For a moment the agent was paralyzed, awaiting Silva’s response with anxiety building in his chest.

But then Silva smiled, and Bond could breathe again.

“Mr. Bond,” Silva replied, his eyes dancing with familiar mischief, “I think I’ve finally met my match.”

And then Silva leaned over and kissed him, and the kiss held all the words that Bond could not find; full of mingled hope and relief and understanding.

The agent laughed against Silva’s mouth and kissed him back deep and slow, not afraid to linger on the other man’s lips.

Bond could afford to take his time. He wanted this kiss to be a promise: the promise that they had all the time in the world.

 

_-the end-_


End file.
